It was exactly ten-forty-five when he started out on the second lap of his trip. “Fifteen minutes to make good in,” muttered Jimmy to himself. Along the sides of the slimy trail strange things were happening. Men began to appear on the surface. Horses and mules browsed around, hunting for a green patch of grass. “What time have you got, buddy?” asked Jimmy of a man who was stripped to the waist and washing in an honest attempt to remove some of the dirt that had accumulated on his body since the wash of two months ago. The man stopped and picked up his wrist watch. “Five minutes before knocking-off time, Jack,” was the casual reply. “Five minutes,” repeated Jimmy McGee, doubtfully. “Say, do you think it’ll _finee_ at eleven?” he asked. “Sure,” was the confident reply. “It started in ten minutes; why the hell can’t it end in a few minutes?” “Guess it can, but it seems funny as hell to talk ’bout the _guerre_ endin’. Why, there’s been times lately when I thought the damn thing would never _finee_,” stated Jimmy, very solemnly. “It will be strange to have it all finished. But I can get along without it. Say, I wonder when the hell we’ll go home, Jack?” “Great God! I’d never thought of that. If this _guerre finees_ to-day we ought to get a crack at the first boats. Been over here long enough. Can you imagine gettin’ back to the old life, wearin’ garters and stuff like that?” “Too much for me, Jack,” admitted the man as he scrubbed away. The bombardment seemed just in the act of flinging all of its violence into their ears when the roar of cannon and the shrieking of shells toned down to a puny whisper. A few seconds of scattered “booms” passed. Then a silence unknown to that part of the world settled over the vicinity of Verdun. The guns of war had been hushed as if by the magic command of some invisible master voice. Jimmy and the man looked at each other, stunned into dumbness by the miracle of silence. Five minutes passed in strange quietude. “Guess I’ll blow up to the guns and see how the boys are takin’ this stuff,” said Jimmy, slowly. “Well, it’s _finee_, sure as hell,” declared the man. He was reading his shirt and snapping his catches between thumb-nails. “So long, bud; I’ll meet you in Boston,” was Jimmy’s parting shot. “In Boston, eh?” replied the man as if a new and pleasing idea had occurred to him. “_Oui_—in Boston.”